Snapshots
by Lady-of-the-Refrigerator
Summary: A collection of unrelated one-shots of 1000 words or fewer. [Lizzington]
1. In Scotch Veritas

It's been a long day. Not the kind when you fall into an exhausted, satisfying slumber before your head hits the pillow, but the frustrating, trying kind you drink copious amounts of alcohol to forget.

As soon as they return to their hideaway of the moment, Liz all but collapses on the couch in the living room and Red wordlessly sets about preparing glasses of scotch for them both. It's become a routine over the past few weeks whenever they hit a roadblock in their search for Berlin, which is more often than not.

He sets the bottle on the coffee table in front of the couch before he retrieves their glasses and hands her one; he slumps down next to her, careful not to spill his own.

She's lost track of how much they've had to drink by the time he kicks off his shoes and props his feet on the coffee table and the moonlight streaming in the window draws her attention to his socks. They're a rich, deep red that complements her blouse far better than his suit. Somewhere in her drink-addled mind, she wonders if he intentionally matched his socks with her shirt and why on earth anyone would do that.

She's just drunk enough to try to ask him, but instead of an answer, he leans in with an inelegant lurch and kisses her. It's a good kiss as drunken, one-sided kisses go, but she doesn't kiss him back; she's too surprised to even push him away.

He pulls back, rests his forehead against her shoulder for a moment to steady himself.

"I'm sorry," he says, slurring slightly. "I know I'm the last person in the world you would ever consider… And even if I weren't, you probably don't… I know I couldn't even look at anyone that way for months after…"

Her head is swirling and she can barely process what he's saying. With one kiss, he obliterated any lingering suspicion she had that he was lying to her about being her father or using a loophole of technicality or figurative language to avoid a lie. He left her adrift now without an explanation for why he was willing to die for her, willing to kill for her, willing to surrender—_actually_ surrender—only to her.

Well.

Perhaps he _has_ left her with an explanation—handed it to her on a silver platter, really—but it isn't one she's ready to face.

He's oblivious to the internal turmoil he triggered. He makes a noise in his throat like he's fighting off a miserable groan and his eyes seem to have trouble focusing. "I think I need to lie down."

She expects him to stand, hobble drunkenly for his room or maybe the toilet, but instead he curls up on the couch next to her and pillows his head on her thigh. He's asleep before she can protest.

She stares down at him in shock. She should shove him off of her, head back to her own room for a glass of water, a couple aspirin, and some much needed sleep.

She should.

She doesn't.

His hand is between her lower back and the cushions and the heat from it is soothing on her tired muscles. She runs her fingers over his scalp, traces her way down a sideburn; he nuzzles his nose against her abdomen before settling again.

She sighs.

The couch really is too comfortable for its own good.

The couch. Not anything else.

She closes her eyes and lets sleep overtake her, too.


	2. Drinking Buddies

"So,"—Ressler wrinkled his nose and squinted at Liz—"you lived with Reddington for three months. How did that work?"

Liz sighed. She really needed to find herself a new drinking buddy. Ressler was too chatty and, after he got a few beers in him, much too curious for his own good.

"It wasn't completely horrible," she said. "We were on the same page about a lot of things. And he never left the toilet seat up, so that's a plus."

"Do you miss it? The companionship?" Liz eyed him warily, mentally adding 'entirely too perceptive' to her list of reasons not to drink with Ressler. He shrugged. "I'm not gonna judge you for saying yes. Loneliness is a bitch."

She relaxed infinitesimally, taking a sip of her beer. "You're a good guy, you know that?"

"Hey, if I can't help a friend through a bad breakup, what use would I be?"

Liz snorted. "Tom and I didn't exactly break up."

"I wasn't talking about Tom."

Her stomach dropped and she narrowed her eyes at him. "How did you—"

"I don't know if you noticed, but you guys used to stare at each other all the time. You don't do it anymore. You barely even look at each other and when you do, you both look _really_ fucking sad, if you'll pardon my French." Liz's expression fell. "Yeah, kinda like that," he said, pointing to her face. "So how did it happen?"

"You're nosy tonight."

"I like to live vicariously. Besides, I'm not gonna judge you for it either. I'm starting to understand that you gotta take whatever you can get in life."

"It's a long story," she said, avoiding his eyes. "And personal. Not just for me."

"OK, I get it, you don't like to kiss and tell." He drained the last of his beer and motioned for the bartender to bring another. "Do you think he's in love with you?"

Liz's brows furrowed and she sighed again, curling in on herself. "Probably."

"For what it's worth, I think he has been for a while."

"Did everybody figure that out before I did?"

"Probably. I mean, the guy kinda turned his entire life upside down just for the _chance_ to work with you. For all he knew, you were gonna refuse. What was it that made you realize?"

Liz blushed and pursed her lips. "Nope, sorry, I'm not gonna answer that."

"Fair enough." Ressler watched her, a thoughtful look on his face. "Do you love him?"

She was silent for a long while, running her thumb through the condensation on her bottle. "I shouldn't," she said at last.

"That's not a no."

"No, it's not," she whispered; she didn't trust her voice not to break.


	3. Reciprocation

AN: Just something quick inspired by screenshots from S2 promos going around. Probably not really all that spoilerish in the end, but fair warning.

* * *

Liz tightened her grip on her gun and peered through the peephole in the hotel room door. She swore under her breath and wrenched the door open before Dembe could finish picking the lock. Red moved past him into the room as if she hadn't, gun drawn. She raised her own gun in response, keeping it level with the center of his chest.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, breaking into my room? That's a good way to get yourself shot!"

"Opening your door in nothing but a bra and panties isn't much better. You can't expect everyone to fall to their knees in front of you based on your…"—he raked his gaze along her body—"_considerable_ charms alone."

"No, of course not. That's what the gun is for."

Neither Red nor Liz lowered their weapon as they stared each other down.

"Dembe, will you excuse us for a moment? I'm sure Hudson could use some fresh air, or whatever passes for it around here."

Liz rolled her eyes when Dembe complied with little more than a wary look aimed at the two of them. She turned away, purposely ignoring the gun still trained on her to pull her jeans on roughly; when she turned around again, she expected to come face to face with a very perturbed Red, but was momentarily taken aback when she found him kneeling at her feet instead.

He laid his gun on the bed and took off his hat before he reached up to button her jeans and zip her fly, rubbing his hands down her hips to her thighs in a lingering caress when he finished. She ran a hand up his neck and along his jaw, tilting his head back to make sure he maintained eye contact.

"You can't expect me to forgive you every time you fall to your knees in front of me."

"Mmm, but I do so enjoy looking up and seeing your shining face. Can I tell you how flattered I am to discover I'm not the only one?" He nodded towards the hodgepodge of photographs and documents she had pinned to the ceiling over the bed, in which he played a prominent role. For the first time since he burst into the room, embarrassment and self-consciousness flooded her veins and she felt herself flush.

His eyes followed the blush as it worked its way down her chest. He slid his hands back up her legs, splaying his fingers across the small of her back to pull himself closer; his mouth was mere millimeters from her skin, his breaths stirring the downy hairs on her torso, when she dug her fingers into his shoulders to stop him.

"We've talked about this, Red. Nothing above the belt, not without a little reciprocation. You have a problem being shirtless, fine—but if you keep trying to cheat like this, I'm going to find a way to return the favor."

She shoved him away; he caught himself before he could lose balance and perched on the foot of the bed. He watched her finish dressing with a hint of a smirk curving his lips. "Remind me to find a reason for us to go undercover at a certain club I used to frequent as soon as possible. I think you'd enjoy it."

"I'm not going to a sex club with you."

"It's not a sex club per se, but it's nearly as enjoyable. It would give you an opportunity to treat me publicly how you do behind closed doors, without the need for excuses or subterfuge." He stood and began to cross the small room with deliberate slowness; she tried to ignore him while she buttoned her blouse. "Believe me, it can be very… fulfilling."

She glanced up and met his eyes in the mirror. "You're insufferable."

"Insufferable, maybe. Incorrigible, definitely." He pulled her to him by the hips. "This doesn't break any rules, does it? Everything is very much aboveboard and below-the-belt."

"Perhaps we don't need that club after all," he whispered, his cheek against hers and his lips at her ear.

She turned in his arms and walked him back towards the bed, pushing him down onto it and crawling up after to straddle him. He leaned up at the waist, intent on her mouth, but she pressed him back into the mattress.

"One of these days you will let me kiss you," he said, straining against the hand on his chest.

"Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart."


	4. Naomi

AN: For future reference, this was written between episodes 2x01 and 2x02, with no regard for spoilers/episodes past 2x01.

* * *

"Hey," Liz said, resting her hand on Red's shoulder. Slowly, he roused from his reverie and glanced up at her. "You shouldn't be here when she wakes up. You shouldn't be here at all."

He forced a sad smile and hauled himself out of the chair, moving in slow motion as if he carried the weight of his guilt heavy on his shoulders. He looked so world-weary it made her heart ache—in spite of herself, in spite of his culpability in what happened to his former wife.

She stopped him when he made to move past her with a hand on his elbow. "Are you gonna be all right?"

"I'll be fine, Lizzy," he said. "This isn't… I appreciate the concern, but you don't have to worry about me."

When she didn't say anything in return, he nodded and started down the hall.

"Red?" He turned back to face her, straightening his hat, sliding his fingers across the brim. "Do you know anywhere nearby that allows dogs? Two nights are up and with all the commotion, I haven't had the time to look."

His face softened and some of the rigidity in his posture faded away. She felt herself relax infinitesimally. It was good to know they could still read between each other's lines.

"Dembe will give you the address. What are you in the mood for?" he asked, his tone more carefree than it had been in weeks. "Indian? Italian?"

"I was thinking Chinese."

"You're always in the mood for Chinese."

She smiled sheepishly. "Seven o'clock OK?"

"Sounds good to me."

She watched him disappear down the quiet hospital hallway towards the elevator and sighed.

"Agent Keen."

Liz started at the sound of the voice and spun around.

"Mrs. Hyland, you're awa—" The words died on Liz's tongue when she met the other woman's disillusioned eyes.

"Lizzy, is it?"

"Liz," she corrected automatically, and suppressed a wince. She realized how bad that sounded. "I, uh… most people just call me Liz," she explained haltingly, digging herself even deeper, "but Agent Keen is fine."

"I need you to make sure he's not allowed back in here."

"I will, ma'am. If there's anything else I can do for—"

"And I would like to request that another agent be assigned to my case."

"Mrs. Hyland…"

"Don't," she said, holding up the hand that wasn't bandaged. "I don't want to know."

Liz swallowed hard. "I understand."


	5. A Necessary Evil

AN: For some ungodly reason, the plotbunny for this bit me back in January and it's been sitting in my Blacklist file mostly written ever since. I figured post-2x08 was as good a time as any to add the last few sentences and post it.

* * *

He knew they were fucking.

Right at this very moment, but also as a general, ongoing thing.

They usually had the courtesy to wait until he was on a job, or in the shower, or asleep, or out of earshot, or at least out of the goddamn room, but they most definitely did nothing to hide it. They didn't even try.

He didn't like it, not one bit, but it wasn't as if he had any say in the matter. After all, if it weren't for the two of them, he'd be dead. Owing someone your life makes it possible to forgive a multitude of sins. Not easy, but necessary. There were very specific terms to his continued survival and he didn't plan on giving either of them a reason to doubt him again.

Especially Liz. Because Raymond Reddington would do anything for Elizabeth Keen and apparently that included keeping her two-faced husband alive. If she gave the word, Reddington would cheerfully murder him.

So Tom endeavored to be as useful and unobtrusive and unargumentative as possible, even if it meant having to listen to them in bed together, at best through the paper-thin walls of their latest safe house, at worst from the other side of the same room.

He shifted in his chair, adjusting himself, and tried to ignore them. Easier said than done. She was never that wanton or vocal with him, but with Reddington, she might as well have been an entirely different person. He had half a mind to think it was all for show for his benefit, to taunt him about what he couldn't have anymore, but Liz… Liz just wasn't that good of a liar and this… Well, it wasn't an act.

She was different with Reddington because Reddington was different.

Tom never had much patience for Liz trying to lead things; Reddington clearly got off on it. (That was a power-dynamic he didn't even want to try to understand.) Never once did she let him fuck her without a condom. That didn't seem to apply to Reddington, either. And, God, the dirty talk…

"Look, do you mind?" he groused, when he couldn't stand it for one more second. "I'm trying to get work done here."

"We've had a very stressful day, Tom. When you look death in the face, sometimes it's necessary to find a way to remind yourself you're alive." Reddington pitched his voice low in a tone Tom could only call seductive. His cock ached at the sound of it.

He was obviously losing his mind.

That must be it. Reddington was _trying_ to make him lose his mind.


	6. First Snow

It came out of the blue with a cold, wet thunk at the back of Liz's neck. Icy slush dripped down into her coat, sending shivers down her spine.

She spun around, indignant, and saw Red, who had fallen behind a few paces, his fine gloves still coated with thin patches of snow. He wasn't playing innocent, no, anything but. He looked at her with mischief and a challenge in his eyes. The moment stretched, each of them waiting to see what the other would do.

At last, Red stooped to scoop up another handful of snow. Time started to move again with what seemed like an audible snap. Liz had a snowball packed and shaped before he could even raise his head; when he did, it was just in time to receive a face full of the same slushy snow that was still dripping down Liz's back.

After that, all bets were off. They traded breathless barbs as quickly as they traded clumsily-packed snowballs, never turning their backs to each other. When she managed to circle close enough, Liz lunged at him and grabbed him round the middle, overbalancing them both. Her lungs burned from laughter and cold air as she collapsed to the ground on top of him.

Taking great gasps of air, she scrambled to push herself up to her knees, one braced on either side of his body. She gathered one last bunch of snow, painstakingly forming it into a perfect snowball. She raised her arm, poised to squash it wherever it would be the most unpleasant, and looked down at him for the first time.

His face was flushed pink from the cold and the exertion, his eyes bright, his smile broad even as he struggled to catch his breath.

She wanted to kiss him.

All at once, her mouth felt like cotton and her stomach tied itself into knots. She thought, maybe, if neither of them made any sudden movements, the urge would pass. Maybe she should slowly back away. Maybe she should close her eyes and feign exhaustion. Maybe she should—

"Would it change your mind if I begged for mercy?"

She blinked in confusion before remembering the snowball still clutched in her fist. Another drip of ice cold water itched its way under her coat.

"You started this."

"I realize that. But a benevolent victor can still decide to pardon the condemned."

She seemed to consider his request for a long, drawn out moment.

"No dice," she said. He screwed up his face to brace himself for another icy impact; she let the snowball fall from her hand and covered his lips with her own. His gasp of surprise was worth all the chilly, damp discomfort in the world.


	7. Red's Shirt

It took Don a few long moments after Keen opened her door for him to process what he was seeing. Her body language reeked of annoyance as she stood there with her gun in her hand, blocking his view into the room, wearing a man's button down dress shirt and, from what he could tell, nothing else.

"Hey, Ressler. My eyes are up here." Don's mouth snapped shut with an audible click and he stared up at her, dumbly. There was no way it was one of her ex-husband's. Sure, it was certainly big on her, but the arms almost fit and Tom Keen was much too tall and long-limbed for that. "What the hell are you doing here in the middle of the night?"

"That's Reddington's shirt."

Her jaw clenched. "What makes you say that?"

"Come on, we've been working with the guy for a year and a half. You think I haven't learned to recognize a shirt that costs half my monthly salary when I see one? Besides, it smells like him."

"It _smells_ like him?" she asked, her eyebrows creeping up her forehead. "You sure I'm the one who's jealous of Uncle Red?"

Don blushed to the roots of his hair.

"Go to hell, Keen. It's my job to know as much about him as possible and his cologne preferences fall under that last time I checked. And last time I checked, it sure as hell wasn't _your_ job to go around in nothing but his shirt."

"You're lucky I'm wearing this much, barging in on me at this time of night."

"You're breaking protocol on so many different levels right now—"

"By wearing Red's shirt?"

"By sleeping with him!"

"Who says I'm sleeping with him?"

"You're not sleeping together?"

"Of course not," she said, plainly. "We're having sex. We haven't slept together once." She lifted her chin, held his gaze. "What's the matter? It's not like I'm in love with him, right?" Don sputtered. That wasn't what he meant when he said that to her, not even slightly. "Look, Ressler, we're partners, right? Partners protect each other, keep each other's secrets."

"If you expect me to lie to Cooper about this—"

"I don't see why you have to say anything to Cooper at all. It's not hurting anything, and it keeps Red close and keeping Red close can only work in our favor, don't you think?"

"I don't know what's gotten into you lately, Keen." Liz raised a pointed eyebrow and Don felt himself blush again. "Holding your husband captive, having sex with Reddington—"

"Are you here for anything important or is this disappointed big brother act the only reason?"

"Honestly? You seemed really down today, and I was worried about you. God forbid I actually care about my partner's well-being."

Her expression softened infinitesimally. "OK, well, thanks for that. It's appreciated. I've got your back and you've got mine, but not in the middle of the night, all right? I doubt you'd like it much if I came banging on your door at 2 AM once you finally work up the courage to ask out that cute barista you're always flirting with."

Ressler blanched. "I can see why Reddington likes you. You fight dirty."


	8. Guilt

AN: Written after 2x16.

* * *

Red sat down next to Liz on a bench overlooking the river. She only really registered his presence when the biting chill of the wind eased as his body blocked the flow. He didn't speak until she acknowledged him, wiping cooling tears from her even colder face.

"What did you want to talk about, Lizzy?"

"Guilt." He waited for her to elaborate and she watched, distracted, as his breath condensed and curled in the cold air. "I've been thinking about what you said. About Ames' daughter."

"Ahh." He looked uncomfortable, half-ready to bolt like he had before.

"I just want you to know, if I didn't have the money from the apartment to work with, I don't… I may only be assuaging my own guilt, but I don't know what I would have done with myself if I didn't have that option."

He sighed, relaxing somewhat into the bench. "It's the least I can do," he said, his voice full of emotion.

"And after the money runs out, if she needs me to see after something else… You would handle it if I asked, wouldn't you? Because seeing after her hopes and dreams has become one of mine."

His cheek twitched and he inclined his head in agreement.

Liz nodded, took a deep, steadying breath and let it out slowly. She studied his face, his tear-filled eyes. "You hired Tom, didn't you?" she asked. "Berlin turned him, but you hired him first. Like Ezra."

Red stared at her, shocked into silence. He offered her no denials, no counter-arguments, nothing.

He did it.

She nodded again and turned to watch a sailboat float its way down the river. She thought she would feel a new kind of weight on her with the confirmation, but instead she felt a strange lightness that she couldn't quite understand.

"At least Ezra was loyal," she said quietly, without looking at him. Still, she could feel his attention on her like an itch.

"What are you going to do, Lizzy?" he asked; his voice sounded rough and strained, almost worried.

She turned to face him, pinning him in place with her gaze. "Last month, I think I might have killed you."

He swallowed hard, jaw clenching. "And now?"

She shook her head fiercely. "It wouldn't solve anything. It wouldn't undo what happened."

He searched her face, devastation the likes of which she'd never seen clear in his eyes. "I can be on my plane in an hour. You never have to see me again."

"No." Quickly, she reached out and grabbed his gloved hand in hers, stopping him from standing. "No."


	9. In Plain Sight

AN: Spoilers based on S3 filming photos.

* * *

Liz tried not to let the irony of the situation get the better of her. How often had Red criticized her for looking, acting, or thinking like a cop? How often had he encouraged her to loosen up so she would better blend in with his own allies and contacts? Yet just hours after committing an act that irrevocably wrested that title from her, here they were, ready to camouflage themselves as cops to aid their flight as criminals.

But, then again, there was more than a little logic to it. What better way to get past the roadblocks than to drive right through them with impunity? What better place to hide than in plain sight?

Red faced the van door while she stripped off her clothing, his eyes downcast and his shoulders tense. Moving as quickly as she could, she pulled on the standard issue black pants and soft, white t-shirt, and hefted the smaller of the two bulletproof vests over her head. She fastened the vest and shrugged into the baby blue shirt before she sat again to leave him room to change.

To her surprise, he didn't turn his back to her when he pulled off his shirt and dropped his tailored trousers. A heady rush of his signature cologne, stronger than usual, and fresh, clean sweat washed over her, threatening to overwhelm her senses. She fumbled with her uniform buttons, fingers clumsy from adrenaline and the distraction of having bare-chested Red hunched not two feet away from her wearing only a pair of well-fitted boxer-briefs. She prayed he was too focused on the matter at hand to notice her heated cheeks.

* * *

This was yet another item Liz could check off her ever-growing list of _Things I Never Expected to Experience_—joining her own man hunt. She and Red had abandoned their police cruiser among countless others and joined the swarm of law enforcement officers sweeping areas the two of them were known to frequent.

He helped steady her as she jumped down from the fire escape into the alleyway behind The Audrey. They dusted themselves off, able to breath freely for the first time since they slipped away from the throng, but the relief wouldn't last long. The next leg of their journey called for them to separate.

"Remember, if we don't reconnect within two days, contact Mr. Kaplan as soon as you can." He pressed a folded piece of paper into her hand and Liz's chest tightened painfully as he started down the alley.

"Wait!"

"What is it, Lizzy?" he asked, agitated. He was rarely short with her, but the pressure was getting to him by that point just as obviously as it was getting to her. He watched her approach him with the same kind of horrified desperation clear on his face she felt a year ago when she tried to convince him to run before he could be arrested and all he wanted to talk about were lion fish and near death experiences.

He could see their window of opportunity growing smaller and smaller by the second. They truly didn't have much time—she knew that as well as he did—but if something went wrong and she never saw him again, she had to make this moment count. A lifetime wouldn't be long enough to learn everything she wanted to know, to say everything she wanted to say, but she thought perhaps there was time enough now to make sure that whatever the future held for them, she would face it with one fewer regret.

"Elizabeth, we need to move. If we don't reach our checkpoints before they realize what we've done, then all of this was for n—" With a fistful of his collar clenched in her hand, she darted forward and captured his lips in a sudden, searching kiss. It went on for ages, or so it felt, at least. Much longer than it should have. Maybe. Perhaps.

Chest heaving under heavy Kevlar, she pulled back and drank in the warm look of wonderment and undeniable affection on Red's face, the soft caress of his hand at her cheek, before they sprang apart at the same moment and ran in opposite directions without a backwards glance.

* * *

Hours later, once all the dust settled and security footage had been pored over for clues to their next destination to no avail, Ressler, Samar, and Aram gathered around a computer screen and watched the final clip of Red and Liz together in the alley. Initially chalked up as a stolen moment between two officers, the footage was overlooked until it was too late to be useful; the partners in crime were in the wind long before anyone identified them in the video.

A gamut of emotions played over the team's faces as they exchanged silent glances after it ended, but not one of them seemed terribly surprised by what they saw.


	10. Not with a Bang

Missing/extended scene from 2x02.

* * *

Liz picked up the paltry file Red had all but tossed aside and set it on the coffee table next to the accoutrements his surgeon manicurist had left behind; she relaxed into the sofa beside him, closer now that there was room.

"Well, that's all very fascinating," she said, "I'll be sure to pass the intel about the assault along to Ressler and the team."

"At your leisure," Red said, with pointed sarcasm. "You realize the information I gave you on the bank is time sensitive. The longer you wait—"

"I don't want to talk about the bank anymore, I didn't come here to talk about a blacklister."

He eyed her curiously. "I thought you gave me all the information you could find about Jennifer."

"I did."

"Then what do you want to talk about?"

Liz studied Red's face whenever he brought up his daughter, watched each and every flicker of emotion pass over his features before he managed to stamp them out, desperate to appear calm and nonchalant. But he couldn't fool her. He could obfuscate the details of her own past with relative ease, but in this? Oh, he was a lot more transparent.

"Are you OK?" she asked.

His cheek twitched, but other than that, he had no reaction. "Why shouldn't I be?"

"I figured it out, you know," she said, ignoring his attempt at deflection. "Why you've been acting so strangely since we found out Berlin was targeting your ex-wife."

"Have I been acting strangely?" he asked, and smiled a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"You didn't know, did you? You had no idea they were in protective custody." Red took a slow, deep breath and inclined his head in reluctant confirmation. "All this time… You thought they were dead, didn't you?"

"It was the most likely explanation, given the… evidence," he said; there was a slight tremor in his jaw when he spoke.

"And you're just—what—fine now? This doesn't bother you?"

"What do you want me to say, Lizzy? That I'm feeling shocked? Depressed? Betrayed? I should be ecstatic. Against all odds and reason, my wife and daughter are alive. There was a time I would have given anything for that to be true." He let out a humorless huff of air. "Almost everything I've based my life around for the last twenty-odd years is a lie, but somehow it's not even the slightest bit comforting."

"Your ex-wife, she could have told y—"

"I guess it was foolish of me," he interrupted, "but I expected some kind of… grand reveal. A mystery that plagued my soul for decades should deserve at least that much, shouldn't it? But no—I find out while flipping through a stack of target profiles on what should have been an unrelated case. 'Not with a bang but a whimper.'" He shook his head. "Maybe I read too much. Life is rarely so poetic."

Liz's chest tightened painfully. Red was usually the one who offered comfort in their peculiar relationship. The thought of _him_ needing comfort was a foreign one, and yet here they were. Not that he'd ever admit it, let alone ask for it.

A hug was too forward, a pat on the shoulder too stilted. He had held her hand while her life fell apart around her when they were still strangers. There was no reason she couldn't do at least that much for him.

He tensed up when she reached for his hand, perhaps unsure of her motives, but once her fingers closed around his, he deflated just a bit, shrunk in on himself just enough that he didn't seem quite as much larger than life as he usually did. He squeezed her hand in return, almost in reflex.

Rosa really did do an excellent job on his manicure.

When he spoke again, Red's voice was choked rough with emotion. Gone was the blithe, false cheer and in its place was something Liz could only describe as heartbreak. "Which is worse—losing your family in a violent tragedy or finding out decades later that their tragic demise had been faked in order for them to escape you?"

"I don't know."

"Neither do I," he said, with a hollow little laugh.

Liz searched his haunted face in silence for a few long moments. "You'll forgive her for it, won't you? If you—_when_ you find her."

"Of course I will. Naomi, she… did what she felt she had to do to protect our little girl. In my world, you learn very quickly which kinds of actions are worth holding grudges over and which kinds aren't."


	11. Rescue Party

Vague spoilers for the Red/Lizzy S4 preview scene.

* * *

"I don't understand why you're doing this, Liz. You don't owe him anything."

Liz finished tightening the straps on the spare FBI-issue bullet proof vest, the weight of it familiar and reassuring on her shoulders and chest. Almost as comforting as the weight of the gun holstered at her side.

"He saved my life," she said simply, not sparing even a glance at Tom as she readied herself for battle. The only image in her mind's eye was Red, staring blindly into the one-way mirror in Kirk's hideaway, desperate to see her, to save her, despite what she'd done.

"He _ruined_ your life. He's ruined all of our lives. So what if he got himself in over his head with Kirk? Either his people will find him or they won't. What does it matter?" Tom was rapidly losing his composure, his carefully crafted persona. His accent started slipping as his agitation grew. "The only thing that matters is you're free. This is our chance to get away for good. To disappear. To be a family. Come on, Liz. I just want to live a normal life with my wife and daughter—"

"Tom. I'm not your wife…"

"Don't be so pedantic," he interrupted, "you know exactly what I—"

"And Agnes isn't your daughter," she said, her voice flat, cold, as she looked up at Tom at last; he reared back as if she'd slapped him hard across the face.

"She's not my…" Confusion quickly gave way to a sick, loathing comprehension. He stepped forward to tower over Liz and her grip closed reflexively on the gun at her hip. Another step and she thumbed open the catch on the holster. The hairs on her arms, the back of her neck, all stood at attention as anger radiated off Tom in waves. But he kept walking and walking, past her, past Baz, past Dembe, out the door into the humid twilight.

She never saw him again.


End file.
